A Grim Day
by Ericka Jane
Summary: Dean meets the grim reaper. Like, THE grim reaper. Not a death!fic. Season 6 spoilers.


**A/N**: Written for no reason other than the fact that I was inspired by some roadkill (yes, roadkill), and I like the concept of grim reapers. Seriously, it's random and pointless, but I hope you like it anyways.

**A/N 2**: Everyone's been so awesome and patient when it comes to my chapter fics, and I promise to try and make up for it with kick ass new chapters, hopefully really soon.

**Warnings**: Death of a main character but it isn't permanent (when is it ever?) and one f-bomb.

**Set in**: Season 6, spoilers all the way up through 6.07

* * *

**A Grim Day**

_Who calls out my name?_  
_Who tells me what happens,_  
_When my eyes close for the last time?_  
_Does it all simply end,_  
_In a blanket of darkness?_  
_What of my soul?_  
_What of my soul?_  
_-Atreyu, 'The Remembrance Ballad'_

* * *

He doesn't remember much. There was a hunt; it went bad and then it was lights out. He remembers how heavy the werewolf was when it collided with his chest, remembers the distinct and sickening crack of his ribs when he hit the pavement, trapped under the hairy beast. He thinks there might have been gunshots, Sam's, probably, but the loud _pop pop pop_ of the gun was drowned out with the snarling and growling from above him. He remembers the heat of its fur, the rancid smell of its breath, and then pain as razor sharp teeth tore into him. He doesn't remember being scared but the fear might've been masked by the pure adrenaline racing through him like fuel in a sports car. But he doesn't think he would've been all that afraid anyways. He's died before, a few times too many, and he knows what's waiting on both sides of the coin. Heaven, hell, he's been to both, and that's even if he makes it that far. If he continues to follow Winchester tradition, he won't be dead long.

But this isn't like every other time. There isn't a rack or the smell of sulfur and heat, and he isn't caught in some fictionalized heaven. He's standing on a paved road. It's night time, pitch black without stars or clouds, and a thin layer of fog coats the air, making it heavy. The road is bordered with thick woods on both sides; the kind that looks like it houses something twisted and dangerous.

And then suddenly, he isn't alone.

The figure in front of him is tall, easily matching Sam's height and then a little more. The robe it wears is blacker than black, almost blending in with the starless sky above. The hood is pulled up, covering most of the thing's face, but Dean can see the dull white of bone underneath the fabric. A skeletal hand curls around a wicked scythe held tightly in its right hand. Dean stares at the blade and wonders how it's gleaming when there isn't any light.

'_Grim reaper_,' Dean thinks as he draws his gaze back up to the black hole that's supposed to be its face, 'the_ grim reaper_.' And then he doesn't know whether to laugh or run.

He still doesn't know what he's doing here.

The reaper reaches out and Dean takes an instinctive step back, eyeing the boney hand hesitantly, preparing his body to bolt in the other direction if need be. Not that it would matter. He can't be positive, but he's pretty sure there isn't anywhere for him to run. But the grim reaper doesn't do anything other than hold out his hand as if waiting for Dean to take hold of it. Dean looks at the offered hand, up to the hooded face, and then back at the hand again.

"No freakin' way," Dean states shaking his head, "Sorry, pal."

At this distance, with the grim reaper an arm length away, Dean can smell the stench rolling off him in waves. He stinks like death, like roadkill simmering under the hot summer sun. It's so strong and sharp that Dean wonders if there's decaying flesh stuck to the bones underneath the layers of black robes. It's the only thing he can think of that accounts for the smell.

The grim reaper pulls himself up tall. Without words Dean can read the impatience, authority, and anger written in the lines of his form. It takes a lot to intimidate a Winchester, but right now, Dean feels like he's three feet tall. He also feels like he wants to run again.

"It's nothing personal," Dean says as he gives a half, hesitant grin, trying to smooth over the reaper's irritation, "It's just that I don't get in vans with strangers."

The scythe shifts in the reaper's hand and the bones of his fingers click against the worn wood of the handle. Dean swallows, wondering what happens when you get sliced with the Grim Reaper's blade. Heaven? Hell? Obliteration? He doesn't want to find out.

"But maybe I'll make an exception for you," Dean amends, watching every shift the reaper makes.

The reaper regards Dean for a tense moment, as if deciding what he wants to do. Then he reaches out again with his skinless hand, and waits for Dean to take it.

Dean swallows, staring at the bones and the curves of joints, wishing he had another option. Slowly, Dean brings his own shaking hand up, planning on dropping it into the reaper's awaiting grasp. He never gets to.

Dean gasps, desperately taking in air as his eyes fly open and his heart re-starts. A hand on his shoulder steadies him, grounds him as he descends back to the land of the living.

"He'll be fine," a gruff voice says, "You two should be more careful."

After a few more deep breaths, Dean realizes he's in a motel room, lying on a lumpy mattress with Castiel and Sam by the bedside.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam says.

Castiel throws one more undecipherable look towards Dean and then disappears. Sam looks back at him, "How do you feel?"

"What happened?" Dean asks, wincing as the words grind against his dry throat.

"Werewolf," Sam replies with a downturned mouth, "Tackled you before I could get the shot."

Then Sam grabs a glass of water from the bathroom and brings it back to Dean, "Then I called Cas. I didn't know if he'd answer," Sam stops and huffs with false amusement, "But I couldn't let you die."

Dean stares at him from over the top of the glass, processing. At this moment, he's actually kind of glad that Sam's missing his soul, because if he weren't, then seeing Dean getting torn apart by yet another supernatural beast would probably be fairly traumatizing. He wonders if this will matter later down the road when they do get his soul back. Or more like, _if_ they get it back.

"Could you really not get the shot in or did you just need an inside man for the werewolf clan, too?" It happens so fast that he doesn't even remember thinking the words before they came out of his mouth. He blinks, watching Sam's reaction.

Sam grins ruefully, or what would be rueful if he could actually feel emotions, "I tried, don't you remember the gun shots? The thing moved too fast. By the time you were on the ground, it was too late."

Dean stares before nodding slowly, accepting the explanation. He did remember the gunshots, briefly, and he knows how fast and dangerous werewolves are. It's just hard, different, with Sam being soulless.

"Right, sorry. I remember," Dean replies as he stares down into the glass of water, "Guess I just drew the short straw again."

"Do we ever draw the long straw?" Sam returns with a sarcastic half smile as he pushes open the lid to his laptop.

'_No_,' Dean thinks, twirling the water in his glass, '_We never fuckin' do_.'


End file.
